San-Cravate; or, The Messengers; Little Streams Part 78

"Brother! can it be you? Mon Dieu! aren't you willing to recognize me?"

"My own sister! my Liline!" cried Sans-Cravate, taking the girl's head in his hands, and covering her face with kisses; "so it is really you!"

But the joyous expression of his face came and went like a lightning flash. He let his arms fall, stepped away from the girl, and continued with an accent of utter despair:

"My sister here in Paris--with Monsieur Albert! My sister abducted--and ruined, of course! O my G.o.d! our poor father!"

And Sans-Cravate sank upon a chair; he could not speak, he could not see; his forehead was burning, he was completely crushed by his grief.

But his sister went to him again, she held out her arms to him, knelt at his feet, and said in a tone that went to his heart:

"Forgive me, brother, I beseech you; forgive me!"

That sweet voice reached the lowest depths of the messenger's heart; he raised his sister and drew her to him, saying:

"But how can it have happened? Come, tell me the whole story; don't keep anything from me, for I must know all!"

Adeline sat on her brother's knee, and said in a faltering tone:

"Yes, I will tell you how it happened; you know that I never lie."--Then, with an intonation of the voice and a simplicity of language as ingenuous as her features, she told her story as follows:

"The last time that you came home to see father, I was, as you know, living with a rich lady who had taken a fancy to me and treated me as her daughter. Father gave his consent, for he thought the education I should receive with her might be of use to me some day. So I was at Clermont, with my patroness. She made me work hard--reading, and studying music; but I often regretted our little cottage, brother, where I could run and jump about and play when I pleased; while in my patroness's salon I always had to be neatly dressed, to stand very straight, and to give up all the games I had enjoyed in my childhood; in fact, etienne, if I must admit it, I was sometimes depressed and often bored; but I dared not say so, for fear of seeming ungrateful. My greatest happiness was to sit at a window looking on the road; for from there I could see the fields and our village and our mountains; and as I worked at my embroidery, I often looked with a sigh in the direction of our cottage.

"About five weeks ago, while I was at the window, I saw a young man ride by. He looked at me; I turned my eyes away, but I thought I could see that he bowed to me. The next day, he pa.s.sed again and looked up again; and as I was sure that he bowed to me that time, I thought that it was courteous to do as much. Several days in succession he rode by; I was always at the window, always looking toward our village, but I knew very well when the young man was there. The window was not very far from the ground; he rode near and said a few words to me, which I didn't listen to the first day, but which I answered on the second. In short--I don't know how it happened, but, before long, Monsieur Albert--he was the young man on horseback--told me that he loved me, and I confessed that I loved him too. Ah! brother, if you knew how happy he looked when I told him that; he declared that he couldn't live without me, and I urged him to go to the village to see father and ask his permission to marry me.

The next day, he came with a very downcast air, and told me that he had seen father, who had refused his consent to our marriage; then I told him to see my patroness, but he said that she had other projects for me; that he knew that she intended to marry me to a very rich old gentleman whom she expected at Clermont any day. At that I wept, but Albert said to me: 'There's only one way for us to avoid being parted; that is, for you to consent to come to Paris with me; we will be married at once, and then our parents will have to forgive us.'--I refused at first; but he begged so hard, swearing that I should surely be his wife, and there was so much love in his eyes and in my heart, that I ended by giving way.--'I will take you to Paris,' he said; 'and when we are married, I'll write to your father to join us there.'--Then I thought of you, and I said: 'I have a brother in Paris, his name's etienne, and he's a fine fellow;'--but--I mustn't lie to you--I didn't tell him you were a messenger, for at my patroness's they seemed to laugh at men who followed that calling. I said that you were learning to make money, but that I didn't know how, and Albert answered: 'We will find your brother, and I will love him too.'--Well--so I allowed him to carry me off, to bring me to Paris; I did whatever Albert wanted me to do. Forgive me, etienne; it was very wicked, I know. But Albert is an honorable man; he will marry me, because he has promised to; I shall be his wife, and then father will forgive me, too, won't he?"

Sans-Cravate listened in gloomy and depressed silence to his sister's story; when she ceased to speak, he sat for some time, absorbed in his grief, and seemed to be waiting for her to say something more. But he suddenly pushed her away, sprang to his feet, and began to pace the floor, crying:

"So this is how these fine young men behave, whose errands we do for them! Ah! I deserve what has happened; yes, I have been doing wrong for a long time, I too am becoming a ne'er-do-well, I allow myself to be tempted to gamble and drink, and I forget my old home, and my father and family! And now, this fine gentleman who pays me so generously, this excellent customer who is always so free with his money, gives me another big fee--and for what? to help him hide my sister, whom he has abducted and dishonored! Ah! _credie!_ my hands itch!"

"Oh! brother, don't be angry. Perhaps Albert doesn't know that you are my brother."

"Oh! no, indeed he don't know it! if he had, you may be sure he wouldn't have come for me. And then, you told him that your brother's name was etienne, and everyone here calls me Sans-Cravate. But heaven has permitted me to find you in Paris; for, do you see, Liline, I am here now, and your seducer must undo the wrong he has done, or I'll kill him on the spot!"

"Oh! my dear brother, don't have such horrible thoughts! Why should you suppose that Albert has deceived me? As he told me that I should be his wife, he will certainly marry me!"

"Marry you! Poor girl; with all the fine things you learned at Clermont, you are still very ignorant! you don't know that these young Parisian dandies take pleasure in deceiving women who are weak enough to listen to them--yes, and are proud of it; that they have three or four mistresses at once; that they fall in love with every pretty face they see."

"Oh! mon Dieu, brother! do you think Albert is like that?"

"I don't think it; I am sure of it! Haven't I served him in his intrigues a hundred times--carried his love letters and his messages?

Ten thousand thunders! And I laughed at it, and thought that it was all right for him to amuse himself--to deceive poor girls who were often driven to despair by his treachery--to make sport of other people's sufferings! Ah! I was a heartless villain; and, instead of serving him so faithfully, I ought to have said to him: 'Monsieur Albert, what you are doing is all wrong, and I refuse to do any more of your dirty work.'--But when we ourselves are not injured, we don't care; it seems nothing at all to us, and we even laugh sometimes at the rascality practised on others! Ah! my poor Liline! Why did father let you go to that lady's at Clermont? why didn't he keep you with him at the cottage?

and me too, instead of sending me to Paris? Ah! a man ought never to part with his children! ain't they always better off with their parents than anywhere else? Come, come; you are crying now; come and kiss me: don't cry, don't despair!"

The pretty Auvergnate wept bitterly, for her brother had torn her heart by telling her that her lover was a deceiver; but she could not believe as yet that Albert did not intend to keep his promise, and she murmured between her sobs:

"Oh, brother! I am very sure that he loves me; he tells me so all day long. Why should he have brought me to Paris, if he doesn't love me?"

"Oh! he loves you enough to make you his mistress--but his wife!

remember that we are only poor folk, that I am only a messenger--while he is a young man of high social position; he is rich; he wouldn't have me for a brother-in-law; why, you see, even you yourself, who have had a fine education and learned society manners, didn't dare to tell him that your brother was a messenger."

"Oh! forgive me, brother!"

And the girl threw herself into Sans-Cravate's arms, hid her face against his breast, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

"No, no!" she repeated; "he will not deceive me."

Sans-Cravate disengaged himself from her arms, drew the back of his hand across his eyes, and cried:

"Well! this is no time to cry like two children; that won't help us. I must act; I must decide what to do. But I have made up my mind."

"What are you going to do, brother?"

"I am going straight to Monsieur Albert's father, because, you see, that's all there is to do. The son might say: 'I ain't my own master, I don't dare, I must wait.'--But that ain't the kind of answer I want.

With the father we shall know what to expect, at all events. Besides, they say that Monsieur Vermoncey's an honorable man; in that case, he will understand my grief and be touched by your position; he won't be willing that honest poor folk should be dishonored by his son; he won't despise us because we haven't got any money, and because I'm only a messenger. I'll say to him: 'Monsieur, we didn't go after your son, to try to catch him; it was him that wanted my sister, and he ran off with her and promised to marry her; and if he don't marry her, _jarni!_ it will be bad for him, for I ain't the man to put up with such an insult.'

But Monsieur Vermoncey will understand me, and he loves his son; he's a fine man, and he will consent--yes, I feel hopeful now, for it seems to me that I have words in my heart that can't fail to move him. Come, Liline, don't cry any more; cheer up; you shall marry Monsieur Albert."

"Oh! yes, brother, yes! I'm very happy that you agree with me now."

And the artless child, with whom laughter soon succeeded tears, threw her arms gayly about his neck.

"You must stay here, Liline, and wait for me; you won't leave this house?"

"No, brother."

"When is Monsieur Albert to return?"

"This evening."

"Then I shall be back before him, and I hope to bring you good news. If I don't--if my prayers are rejected--then I'll take you away with me, sister; I won't leave you with your seducer another minute. I will work for both of us. I shan't go to the wine shop any more, that's all over; and I'll steer clear of Jean Ficelle. I will try to save up a tidy little sum before long, and then I'll take you back to father, and we won't leave him again. You'll go with me, won't you, Liline?"

"Yes, brother. But Albert will marry me, his father will consent--you said so yourself just now."

"At all events, we must hope so. Come, kiss me, sister, and pray heaven that my attempt may not be thrown away!"

The girl threw herself into her brother's arms, and he held her to his heart for some time; it required an effort on his part to make up his mind to leave her; at last, summoning all his courage, he kissed Liline once more and left her, to call upon Monsieur Vermoncey.

It was several days prior to this time that Albert's father had fallen in with Madame Baldimer at Monsieur Grazcernitz's reception, whence he had returned home in a state of violent agitation after listening to the fair American's story.

From that moment, Monsieur Vermoncey had remained in his own apartment, sunk in profound melancholy, and had denied himself to all visitors. It seemed that some deep-rooted sorrow, which had been slumbering in the depths of his heart, had suddenly awakened with renewed violence and was engrossing all his thoughts.

His son's return, however, had brought a ray of light into the Vermoncey household; but Albert, absorbed by his new pa.s.sion, spent as much time as he possibly could with the girl he had brought from Clermont; so that Monsieur Vermoncey saw very little of his son, and he made excuses for him, concluding that after such a prolonged absence he was hungry for the pleasures which he found in the capital.

Sans-Cravate walked with a determined step to Monsieur Vermoncey's house, but when he arrived there he felt that his courage failed him; however, to revive it, he thought of his sister, to whom he had promised good news; he thought of his old father, and of their honor, which was in his hands; then he no longer faltered, but pa.s.sed the concierge and went up to the door of Monsieur Vermoncey's apartment, where he rang.

"What do you want?" inquired the servant, when he saw the messenger, whose disordered dress, excited manner, and flashing eyes seemed to point to some extraordinary occurrence.

"I want to see Monsieur Albert's father--Monsieur Vermoncey."

"What do you want of him?"